


A Found Family Thanksgiving

by diadema



Series: Small Cheer and Great Welcome [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Black Friday, Found Family, Friendship, Multi, Thanksgiving, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: November in New York: Christmas as far as the eye can see. Illya takes a stand against capitalism, demands his team celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving together. Solo, meanwhile, can't *wait* to tell the Red Peril about Black Friday.





	1. The Tempest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowjaeger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/gifts), [Azulet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azulet/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to turn my Halloween story into a Holiday/Celebration series. :) This is the second installment and a sequel to the first. All of these stories will be in the same little universe and will build upon each other.
> 
> I am gifting this to both rainbowjaeger and Azulet as a huge, though completely inadequate THANK YOU for the two, spin-off stories they wrote for my Halloween fic. I will be continuing to sneak in little references to "Oslo" and "Three Times Gaby Was Scary, And One Time She Wasn't" in my quest to subsume them into my holiday 'verse. :) I don't know if either of you actually celebrate Thanksgiving, haha, but I wanted to use this opportunity to express my overwhelming gratitude—not just for the beautiful gift fics, but for all you do as writers and readers in our fandom family. <3 Thank you both!
> 
> I hope to post the chapters (each named for a Shakespearean comedy) daily through Black Friday, but please keep your fingers crossed for me! Thanks so much for reading. Comments are always appreciated. :)

Honestly, he should have seen this coming.

If the Russian were going to be partial to _any_ holiday (American or otherwise), it was bound to be Thanksgiving—what with its emphasis on communally appropriating resources and all that. Utopian harmony, gratitude, those other socialist virtues… it makes sense in theory, is _baffling_ in practice.

For, as he stares down both barrels of that blue-eyed glare, he _has_ to wonder: does it actually count as celebrating if you’re really just taking a stand?

He sighs.

Only Illya Kuryakin would think to weaponize Thanksgiving.

This militant observance of retail’s forgotten, feel-good holiday is an act of protest, if not an outright declaration of _war_.

Against Christmas.

_Christmas._

Solo shakes his head, tries, fails to hide his grin. He can’t _wait_ to tell Peril about Black Friday.

 

* * *

 

In the two weeks since their arrival, the violent, capitalist encroachment of December 25th has been staggeringly inescapable. They had traded in the _haunting_ beauty of Oslo for the unapologetic spectacle of New York—the only ghosts to be found here are those of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

Maybe _that’s_ why Peril likes Thanksgiving.

There’s nothing paranormal about it. No ghost dogs or phantom business partners, no reason for him to hide the knives (though Solo could _swear_ the man still does). The only supernatural agent is the Russian himself.

How else could he explain the man’s seeming immunity to the charms of this Winter Wonderland?

“Is not Moscow,” Peril huffed.

And therein lies the issue.

If the Russian had been distraught—a tragic understatement—about returning to the Land of the Free and Bourgeoisie, he had been absolutely _inconsolable_ when they had landed. Solo and Gaby had had to drag him off the plane… and straight into the onslaught of red and green and tinsel that awaited them.

It was the mechanic who’d scared him into some semblance of cooperation. A flash of those dark eyes and a heated, hissed exchange left Peril meekly, if _mutinously_ trudging behind them.

She has the Russian, the Brit, and yes, even _he_ , the American at her mercy. They have all been on the receiving end of that conversation, been cowed in the face of potent, pint-sized fury. _I’ll tell you one thing_ , he’d admitted to Peril once as they nursed their drinks and bruised egos, _nothing_ _cures sticky fingers like Gabriella Teller._

As they stepped out into the bitter New York chill, the Russian had remained rooted to the ground, overwhelmed by such blatant and ruinous displays of consumerism. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

Solo had tried to make light of the situation. He _should_ have kept his mouth shut. “You’d almost think there _weren’t_ another holiday approaching,” he remarked dryly.

It had been meant as a throwaway line, a parting blow before breezing off to hail a taxi. But Peril had taken it far more seriously.

He hadn’t gone two steps before the Russian had latched onto his arm. A death grip. _“What holiday,”_ he growled.

Thus began the _ad nauseam_ interrogation about pilgrims and cranberry sauce and the historical accuracy of a turkey dinner. All the while, Peril had absorbed the “holiday cheer” around him with atrociously bad grace.

The cab was practically _vibrating_ with righteous Russian indignation.

Solo had deferred, deflected, distracted. Done everything in his power to redirect the Soviet Scrooge’s attention. It had been his own confession that doomed them: he hasn’t celebrated a _real_ Thanksgiving—with family and a home-cooked meal—since he had joined the Army.

 _Hoisted by my own petard,_ he scoffs.

Gaby had given his hand a gentle squeeze and Peril, _Peril_ had given him a grim hum. Solo could almost hear their death knells ringing in the distance.

“Then we will celebrate together,” he declared. Darkly. “A traditional Thanksgiving. _You_ will cook.”

His scowl had brooked no argument.

So, here they are, two weeks later—a native New Yorker and two foreigners—embarking on a quest for a “real” Thanksgiving.

All to teach Christmas a lesson.

The American sighs.

He’ll give the man his holiday all right, but _first_ , he needs a favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "Black Friday", in regards to the official start of the holiday shopping season (and not the devastating crash of the US gold market) has been in use since the 1950s (first in Philadelphia, before catching on throughout the rest of the country). I've read different accounts about when the first 'true' Black Friday was, so please excuse any minor liberties I may be taking with this story. :)


	2. Measure for Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby & Waverly are co-conspirators. Solo and Peril won't rest until they discover the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be more of a tangential Thanksgiving story. Adding a little bit of intrigue to spice up the holiday!
> 
> I'm pulling double-duty with my 30-day "inspired by poetry" series, so I appreciate your patience. I'll try to get the last two chapters up as promptly as possible. Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> UPDATE: in doing my research for the next chapter, I realized that Thanksgiving 1963 came only DAYS after JFK's assassination. I, therefore, feel obligated to incorporate this into my story. Minor changes to follow!

_“No.”_

The dismissal seems to echo in the cavernous apartment. Waverly must have paid a king’s ransom to secure it for them—a gift horse that Solo is _determined_ to look in the mouth. There’s a reason behind this unexpected magnanimity and it has everything to do with the mechanic.

The pair have struck up a maddeningly secret alliance since Halloween. They’re up to something. He’s certain of it. But to find out what, he needs the Russian’s cooperation.

“No,” the man repeats, with a firm shake of his head for emphasis. “It is invasion of her privacy.”

“She’s a _spy,_ Peril. I’d say that ship sailed a long time ago.”

“This is not East Germany,” he huffs. “I will not betray her trust like that.”

The rebuke chastens Solo, but he’s not about to give up that easily. He sighs and plays his trump card. “I’m trying to protect her, _Illya._ ”

That stops Peril in his tracks. He turns back, gives Solo his undivided attention. “You think Waverly’s sending her on her own mission.”

“They’re not planning another party, that’s for sure.” The American pauses, knows he needs to tread lightly here. “Whatever they’re scheming up, I want to make sure it’s safe. See if there _isn’t_ anything we could do to help her. Should she need it, of course.”

“She will not accept our help. Would try to kill us if she thought we didn’t think she could handle it.”

“Are _you_ ready to send her out in the field without backup?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we’re both in agreement.”

Illya pauses. "You think this has something to do with Kennedy?"

The president's recent assassination is still at the forefront of everyone's minds. The nation is still reeling, but they have accepted it with the cynical detachment of survivors and assassins. Solo hums, grim. "There's only one way to find out." He pauses. “Now, Gaby’s a very capable agent,” and here the Russian hums his assent, “but if we’re going to be completely shut out of this, I think we deserve to know why.”

Peril scoffs. “By planting a bug on her.”

“Already taken care of. I believe _you_ saw to that in Rome.”

The Russian’s eyes widen, freeze quickly to something inscrutable. “Her ring.” He swallows hard, avoids the American’s eye. “She doesn’t wear it except for cover.”

Solo sighs. _And supposedly_  he _was the terrible spy._ “She doesn’t wear it on her _finger_ except for a cover—or when she’s drunk—but she does wear it.”

Peril gives him a charged, blank stare... if such a thing were even possible.

 _You can’t be serious,_ he thinks with a roll of his eyes. “On a chain. Around her neck. Sometimes in her pocket. Usually accompanied by a plain gold band that is several sizes too large for her.”

The Russian clears his throat, blinks quickly. “From your fortune-telling cake. She still has it.”

“Surprised? You carry yours at all time.” He smirks at the flush creeping up the Russian’s face. “They make _boxes_ to hold those things, you know. I’d be happy to get you one, if you’d—”

“No.” Then, flustered, “Thank you.”

Peril clumsily, hurriedly redirects the conversation before Solo can press the issue, which he unquestionably _will_ do some other time. “I will turn the bug back on, but _you_ are going to follow my rules. _No exceptions._ ”

The American beams and extends his hand.

“You have my word.”

A flat, unimpressed glare before the Russian grudgingly relents. They shake hands and begin to strategize their plan of attack.

 

* * *

 

“A word, Miss Teller?”

Though Waverly looks impeccable as always, there’s an undercurrent of anxiety radiating through him. The fact that he came to fetch the mechanic personally is equally revealing. He seems to notice Solo and Peril for the first time.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, why don’t you two take the rest of the day off? What with the holiday tomorrow and all, I’m sure you have plenty of _other_ matters to attend to.”

Solo puts on his best smile. “Thank you, sir.”

They watch as the Englishman escorts Gaby to his makeshift office down the hall. UNCLE’s New York headquarters are still being broken in, so to speak; most every work arrangement here is still temporary.

Officially, Waverly is in New York to oversee the transition, especially in this fresh period of mourning. But Solo knows that there's more to his appearance stateside than mere diplomacy. Has known from the _moment_ the man had shown up unannounced at their apartment with Macavity (his temporary charge) in tow: he is only here so he and Gaby can plot in the same time zone.

As soon as the two conspirators are out of sight, the men make their move. They’ve set up their post less than half a block from Del Floria’s, the haberdashery front for UNCLE.

Even if Peril _hadn’t_ balked at the notion of hiding out in a coat room together, the two would have been fools to stick around after Waverly had dismissed them.

And so they are left jockeying for space in a cramped, unmarked van, straining to listen in once Illya remotely activates the bug. The little microphone crackles to life, right in the middle of Waverly’s sentence.

_“—wit’s end, Miss Teller. I’m telling you: this Logan King fellow’s going to be the death of me.”_

Solo exchanges a glance with the Russian. His brow furrows. “Cowboy, do you know—”

The mechanic’s husky voice interrupts him. _“It’s all right, sir. You’ve been in tighter spots than this and he’s never failed you before.”_

A quiet huff from the Englishman. _“No, I suppose not. But_ so much _is hinging on this case, you understand.”_ He sighs heavily. “ _The murders were bad enough, but by_ God, _all those state secrets—lost! And now I’ve gone and painted King into a corner. It’s my fault. It’s_ all _my fault.”_

Again, the two men share a mystified look. They’ve never so much as seen the man break a sweat before, no matter how dire the circumstances. What could _possibly_ have him so shaken?

 _“I looked over your notes, sir,”_ Gaby says, soothing, _“and I think you’re in better shape than you realize.”_ Solo can hear the smug, little smile in her voice. _“Chinatown.”_

A long pause, then, _“Chinatown. That’s brilliant. That contact of his—what was her name again?”_

_“Ren Fang.”_

_“Ren Fang, that’s it. So hard to keep track of these things sometimes. You’re right. She’s the only ally he’s got left.”_

_“Barring you, of course, sir.”_

_“And you_ too _, Miss Teller. You’ve saved King’s skin more times than I count. I assure you, I won’t be forgetting that any time soon.”_

Gaby hums. _“Thank you, sir.”_

_“You still haven’t breathed a word of this to Solo or Kuryakin, correct?”_

_“Of course not.”_

It was true. The mechanic had played coy every time they had tried to press her for details… a secretive smile on good days, a stern telling off on most.

 _“One can never be too careful,”_ Waverly responds, warmly. _“Can’t afford to let something like this slip, can we? There’ll be time enough for that, but for now, Logan King is our ace in the hole.”_

_“Understood.”_

_“Excellent. Now, tell me, how are you enjoying New York so far? Accommodations living up to expectation?”_

Her answer cuts out abruptly. Solo starts, fixes Peril with an exasperated stare. The Russian shrugs. “She is not mark. I am not listening in to her private, _irrelevant_ conversations. Besides, we got what we wanted."

“ _Did we?_ You ever hear of this Logan King?”

A muscle works in Peril’s jaw. “No.”

“Neither have I, though I admit, the name _does_ sound vaguely familiar. I can’t tie it to a case, an agency. Not even an urban legend.” He sighs. "But it doesn't sound like it has anything to do with Kennedy. Unless there are  _other_ murders we're unaware of."

“You have a plan?”

Solo huffs, closes his eyes as he thinks. “Divide and conquer. There’s a big parade tomorrow that I _expect_ you’ll be taking Gaby to. Make a trip to Chinatown if you have to, but see what you can find out.”

He nods to himself as his plan begins to crystallize. “ _I_ , of course, will be begging off to cook you your _traditional_ meal. Meantime, I’ll reach out to my network here. If no one knows anything about King, we might be able to get a lead on his contact.”

“Ren Fang.”

Solo steps smoothly out of the van. He looks over his shoulder at the Russian. “I hope you didn’t make any plans tonight, Peril. If I’m going to be out pounding the pavement tomorrow, I’ll need to get most of my meal prep done early.”

He sighs, knows he’s going to regret this.

“Come on, Peril. Time to go shopping.”

 

* * *

 

Grocery shopping was every bit as terrible as he had been expecting. For someone who has never celebrated Thanksgiving, the Russian had decidedly strong opinions about how everything _should_ be done.

At least Peril isn’t _entirely_ useless in the kitchen. He follows instructions well and keeps most of his suggestions to himself. Gaby looks on in a detached sort of curiosity. She plays with Macavity and plucks out a couple of ballet motifs on the piano.

The gleaming baby grand has been the unsung hero of the apartment.

It was almost… _pleasant_ to discover that the three of them each played, though in varying degrees of proficiency. Peril was the only one with any formal training—in another life, he could probably be playing the concert halls.

Solo himself is self-taught. He plays entirely by ear, can fake his way through most scores. He owns more sheet music than he actually knows how to play, though _that_ is a secret he’ll take to the grave.

Gaby, meanwhile, had learned off and on from friends in between rehearsals. Her repertoire is limited and she never actually learned the basics, but the soft smile she wears more than makes up for it.

The soft smile on Peril’s face when he watches her is enough to make Solo gag. It gives him an odd, unsettling twinge—there’s something so terribly _domestic_ about the scene. About this whole idea of the three of them sharing living quarters and celebrating the holidays together.

It hits too close to the home that Solo hasn’t had in years. Has never thought he’d have again. He frowns down suddenly at the stuffing he’s been working on, shakes his head at this picturesque setting.

“I’ll take it from here, Peril.”

It comes out brusquer than he intends, but he doesn’t soften his tone. “Why don’t you and Gaby go for a walk? I can finish up the rest.”

The piano mid- _Giselle_. Gaby offers him a smile, hooks her arm into the Russian’s.

“Come on, Illya.”

He’s almost sad to see them go. He knows it will hurt only that much more when they all go their separate ways. An inevitable ending. UNCLE is temporary, an experiment. Without Kennedy able to back their horse anymore, it's only a matter of time before the CIA calls him back.

Besides, he works better alone anyway.

_Keep telling yourself that, Solo._

He sighs as he starts to look for the the latest hiding place Peril has found for the knives, the “Dance of the Willis” still echoing softly, but hesitantly in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a couple of fics that have Illya as a skilled pianist. I have always loved that headcanon and decided to extend it here. It's a status symbol for Solo, a diversion for Gaby, and an escape for Illya. 
> 
> Del Floria's is the front for UNCLE headquarters in the original TV series. :)


	3. Much Ado About Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the menu for Thanksgiving: Turkey and red herrings. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! I'm sorry I couldn't post this on the actual day itself... time (and family) got the better of me. One more chapter to go! Thank you so much for reading. I am so grateful to all of YOU who are reading this. Thank you for all the kind words and support and for taking the time to read this little story. It means the world!
> 
> I do want to point out again that I did make a couple of minor edits to the previous chapter to better reflect the world at large. Thanksgiving 1963 came only days after JFK's assassination. It would be remiss of me as a writer to ignore that and the implications it has for the characters.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and for your comments!

Tourists and locals alike press in on them on all sides. Illya scowls over their heads, dares _anyone_ to obstruct the mechanic’s view.

Cowboy had shooed them out of the apartment at the crack of dawn, no trace left of the previous night’s melancholy. _You’ll want to get there early,_ he told them, _before all the good spots are taken._

Gaby and Illya have thus braved the cold and the crowds to stake out the best vantage point. She has teased him mercilessly about the pending consumerist spectacle.

“A simple Thanksgiving, huh? No fuss, no capitalism. No _Christmas,_ ” she says, smirking. “And, yet, here we are. At a nationally-televised parade… hosted by America’s largest department store. To celebrate the start of the holiday shopping season.”

A lukewarm glare from Illya. The hypocrisy rankles him to his bones, but Gaby has a way of soothing the cognitive dissonance. He huffs. “It’s tradition. For _traditional_ Thanksgiving.”

He leans down to mutter by her ear. “I didn’t say it was _good_ tradition. Or that I approve. But Cowboy thought you would enjoy this.” The mechanic hums shortly.

“It is small sacrifice to be here with you,” he confesses.

A gloved hand slips into his own. “Thank you, Illya.” There is a new rosiness blooming in her cheeks that he hopes is not entirely from the cold.

The mechanic withdraws her hand with a furtive, little start. She clears her throat and points hastily down the empty street. “I think it’s starting.”

Sure enough, the parade comes into view, headed by an impressively-scaled Unisphere: a symbol of the upcoming World’s Fair.

The hour that follows is more enjoyable than Illya could ever have anticipated, though he doesn’t know the music that the marching bands are playing or recognize any of the performers—except Little Joe Cartwright from _Bonanza_.

It turns out _The Lone Ranger_ isn’t the only Western he and Gaby like.

He sees a giant balloon fashioned in the likeness of a Brontosaurus. _Sinclair Oil_ , Gaby tells him. _His name is Dino._ Then another of a cow from that one dairy brand Cowboy likes. _Elsie,_ he is quickly informed. _Borden Dairy._

But by far the most awe-inspiring sight is that of the mechanic herself. He can’t recall ever seeing her smile that much. She sways and hums along to the music and animatedly points out every celebrity that passes.

Illya’s not sure if she realizes that she’s been speaking exclusively in German for the past thirty minutes or that, somewhere along the way, she had leaned back against his chest, drawn his leaden arms around her petite form.

She continues to watch the parade as if her world _isn’t_ currently being shaken to its foundations. He concentrates on steadying his breathing—on breathing at all—while Gaby acts as if this is the most natural thing for them to do.

Perhaps it is.

Not even the appearance of _Santa Claus_ could dampen his spirits right now. He looks around at all the smiling faces and feels, _truly feels_ the weight of a nation’s mourning lifted by a few, oversized helium balloons and a bearded man in a red suit.

He reads hope and… healing in their expressions. _Perhaps he has misjudged Christmas,_ he starts to think before catching himself. If he goes down that slippery slope, Illya’s not sure he’ll be able to climb back up.

 _No._ Better to focus instead on this simple, wholesome holiday. One that calls for nothing but community and honest labor. No social contracts, no decorations.

No _gifts._

The crowd slowly begins to disperse, but Illya is reluctant to extricate himself from the mechanic. She doesn’t seem too keen to move either.

Eventually, Gaby pats his arms and he carefully unfolds them from around her. He catches a glimpse of silver as she slips off her scarf. Feeling unusually bold, Illya gently hooks a finger into the chain.

“What is this?”

She steps away from him, flushed, and hurries to retie her scarf. She shrugs, feigned nonchalance. “I can’t tell you. Otherwise, it might not come true.”

Illya’s heart seizes. “A wish, then.”

She nods slowly, warily. “Something like that.”

Gaby begins to take an acute interest in the now-deserted street. “We should probably get going.” An unsteady little smile. “Wouldn’t want to be late after Solo’s spent the whole day cooking.”

A thousand confessions trip through his mind when he catches her arm and their eyes meet. Illya falters, remembers why he’s _really_ here. “I’m sure Cowboy won’t mind. We could go look around, if you’d like?”

“And what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you want.” He hums, pretends to think. “How about Chinatown?”

“For your _traditional_ Thanksgiving, of course.”

He smiles. “Of course.”

They start walking when Gaby suddenly stops short. “Chinatown,” she repeats softly. Her hand flies self-consciously to her throat as she fixes him with a cold, knowing stare.

His heart drops.

 

* * *

 

 _Perfect timing,_ Solo thinks, as he pulls the turkey out of the oven. The team’s coded knock precedes Gaby’s appearance. She strides up to him: her smile too sweet to be innocent.

“Looks like you’ve had a productive morning, Solo. Did you find out anything about King… or would you like me to wear a _wire_ the next time I talk to Waverly?”

Solo takes one look at the Russian and sighs, begins taking off his oven mitts. “I trust Peril’s brought you up to speed about the _why_ and the _how._ ”

“And as I already told him, none of that matters,” she snarls, bristling. “I trusted you. But, more importantly, Waverly trusted _me._ ”

Her chest is heaving, eyes searching his for any trace of comprehension. “He trusted me,” she repeats, ripping the chain from her neck. She encloses the rings in a tight fist. “Trusted that I would be smarter than to let my guard down like this. That I wouldn’t become so _soft_ and foolish.”

She swallows thickly. “I guess he was wrong.”

“I stand by my decision, Miss Teller. For better or for worse.”

All eyes snap to the Englishman. He seems to have materialized out of thin air with a plate of homemade treacle tarts. “I expect you’ll be more careful in the future,” he says, “and _I_ promise to be more transparent with your teammates.”

He turns next to the two men. “I can only guess how things work at your respective agencies, gentlemen. Next time you have your concerns, I would appreciate a more direct approach.” He gives them a wry smile. “I may not be able to show you all my cards, but I will do what I can to ease your minds.”

He and Peril are both stunned (and more than a bit embarrassed) by this pronouncement. Again, Solo feels a preemptive sort of grief for things he knows are too good to last.

“Yes, sir.”

Waverly nods, smiles. He gestures expansively at the elaborately-set table. “Now that that’s all cleared up, I believe there are much more important matters at hand.”

 

* * *

 

The meal gets off to a shaky start, but the tension slowly begins to melt away and settle back into an easy rhythm. Gaby brightens up as soon as they ask her about the parade. It tugs at Solo’s heartstrings to see her so excited over something so simple.

When Peril haltingly adds his thoughts about the ceremony’s more cathartic qualities, he decides to interject, aware that he could very well destroy this still-fragile truce.

“What’s going to happen to UNCLE, sir? When the dust finally settles.”

Gaby and Peril freeze, but the Englishman doesn’t skip a beat. “We will _adapt,_ Mr. Solo. Whether Johnson wants to play ball with us or not. Fortunately, your new president seems more than eager to lend us his support, but the statement still stands, regardless. UNCLE is greater than any world leader or any global superpower.”

The man smiles archly at them. “We may not be a household name, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still uplift a troubled world. Just like Kuryakin said a moment ago, the parade goes on.”

“And what about me, sir? Kennedy was about the only thing keeping me here.”

“Not the _only_ one, Solo. You’ve got more supporters in your corner than I think you realize.” The American stares resolutely ahead, unable to look Waverly in the eye.

“The only way you’re leaving this team, Solo, is on your own terms. That goes for the rest of you. I will do everything in my power to keep you here until _you_ decide it’s time to walk away. And even then, I will do what I can to help you.”

A long pause, then...

_“Who exactly is Logan King?”_

It’s a _staggering_ non sequitur, but it’s the only thing he can think to say in response. Solo knows he ought to thank the man and he fully intends to do so—in private. Less chance of a Hallmark-worthy scene taking place that way.

“He’s an acquaintance of yours.” Waverly arches his brow. “If I recall, I do believe you met briefly at the Halloween party.”

A memory clicks in Solo’s mind.

“The P.I.,” he huffs. “ _You’re_ Logan King.”

“And Ren Fang and all the others. If you haven’t already guessed, Solo, I’m a _writer_. Not a very good one as of yet, but I’m working on it.”

Gaby grins at the men’s slack-jawed expressions. “Waverly approached me when we got back from Oslo. I had helped him create the character for our murder mystery, so he wanted to get my input for his novel.”

“A detective story.” Waverly shrugs, rueful. “It seemed such a shame to leave King behind. Especially after the warm reception he got.”

“Huh,” is Peril’s eloquent contribution.

It is more than Solo can manage. For the first time in his life, the American has officially been rendered speechless.

 

* * *

 

The dishes have been cleared, the sun is sinking low, and a fire burns cheerily in the grate. Waverly sits in an armchair, idly petting Macavity. He overwhelms the Russian with plot devices and character names while Gaby tinkers away at the piano.

Solo smirks at the relief on Peril’s face when she  summons him to her side. She vacates the polished bench and invites Illya to play something for them. Gaby lays her hand on the Russian’s shoulder as he plays, a familiar black pearl ring gleaming softly on her finger.

The American again takes in the domesticity around him, only this time, he feels at peace. There is no urge to run and cut his losses, no instinct screaming at him to keep his distance.

He realizes then that he is content. Safe. _Seen._ It has been years since he has celebrated Thanksgiving with family… but here he is now, with the family of his own (unintentional) design.

And _that_ is something to be grateful for.

 _No Hallmark moments_ , he reminds himself. Solo saunters over to Peril, smirk firmly in place. “There’s _one more_ Thanksgiving tradition I should let you in on.”

Peril hums, doesn’t look up from the piano. “And what is that?”

“A little something called Black Friday…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my research on the 1963 Thanksgiving Day parade. The featured balloons were Dino and Elsie, the parade was kicked off by the Unisphere (for the 1964 World's Fair hosted in New York) and ended with Santa. Michael Landon, who plays Little Joe in Bonanza, was one of the performers/celebrities in attendance.
> 
> The parade, as mentioned came days after JFK's assassination. The Kennedy family asked that the parade still be held for the sake of the nation's children and to maintain a sense of levity and normalcy in the wake of tragedy.


	4. All's Well That Ends Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio goes Black Friday shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! Please enjoy the last chapter. Next installment in my holiday universe will be Christmas. If you have any suggestions or requests, please let me know down below. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_It’s a Christmas miracle,_ he thinks dryly.

The Russian, despite all his vehement protests to the contrary, has decided to join them after all. Solo and Gaby—barely awake and stubbornly nonverbal—have been camped out in front of Macy’s for the past three hours.

Peril wordlessly joins them in line, armed with steaming cups of coffee and a brown bag full of assorted pastries. Solo has no choice but to honor this gesture of goodwill by not commenting on the man’s change of heart.

The Russian eyes the seemingly endless line behind them with evident distaste. He huffs. “You’d think they would be lining up like this for food. Rations.”

“Or work,” Gaby mumbles through a yawn. “Reminds me of Berlin.”

“Only these people look much more desperate,” Peril mutters, facetious. The corners of his lips threaten to form a smile. Solo stares. _Was that a_ joke _that the man just made?_

Gaby turns to the American, grins sleepily at him. “This is all a little beneath you, isn’t it, Solo? Waiting for stores to open. To go shopping. With _real_ money.”

“I’m merely doing my part to help the local economy,” he responds innocently, “and exposing the both of you to the full spectrum of the Thanksgiving experience.”

The coffee seems to finally be kicking in—either that, or it’s her proximity to the Russian that’s done it. There’s that playful, plotting look in her eyes that he knows means trouble. Gaby hums, links arms with the men.

“What would you two gentlemen say to a little friendly competition?”

 

* * *

 

The rules are simple.

They are each to find an office-warming gift for Waverly from any department in Macy’s. It must serve at least two purposes and not be an obvious or traditional present. They have one hour before reconvening and can spend up to $3 each.

Solo parts ways with his teammates and soon loses sight of them amid the crashing waves of shoppers. They are swept off in the different tides of humanity.

He works quickly and efficiently, weaving easily through the crowds. He doesn’t have a specific game plan, but rather, spends the time cataloging various possibilities. At one point, he catches a glimpse of Peril blocking for the mechanic like an oversized Soviet linebacker.

Gaby tosses him a wink before ducking through the gap Illya’s created for her. Before Solo can blink, she is gone and a steady stream of shoppers have taken her place.

He continues to case the various departments, resisting the urge to “windowshop” the people around him. _They make it too easy,_ he thinks, a little disappointed. His blue eyes wander instinctively to open purses, unbuttoned coats, and all the pretty baubles so carelessly left on display.

A glance at his watch pulls his focus back to the task at hand. He grins when he finally sees It and prepares to make his purchase.

 

* * *

 

“You bought him _yarn.”_

Peril hefts the multi-colored skein in his hand. It looks comically small in his broad palms as he tosses it in the air, catches it. _“Why?”_

A valid question. One Solo’s asked himself many times since he first spotted it.

“It could come in handy for a variety of scenarios.”

“Like what?” The Russian’s voice is flat, challenging.

“Playing with Macavity, for one. Rigging his office with traps for another. Plus, I hear knitting is a great stress reliever.”

Peril hums, apparently satisfied. _That was... too easy,_ Solo thinks, as the Russian returns the yarn.

“Could be paperweight too,” he suggests.

Gaby smiles. “My turn next.”

She proudly unrolls the _gaudiest_ beach towel Solo has ever had the misfortune of seeing. He and Peril both choke back their opinions on its… particular aesthetic merits.

 _“Well?_ ” she prompts. “It could double as a throw rug or a blanket. A bandage, if it ever had to come to that. _Or,_ he could put it up on his wall. As art.”

_“Art.”_

The men say it at the same time with the same skepticism. The same long-suffering, strained patience for Gaby’s more eclectic style.

“What’s wrong with it?”

 _“Everything,”_ Peril sighs. “It would be better off as kindling. Or for use in interrogations. One look could break even the hardest of agents.”

Gaby scoffs. “That’s rich, considering you got Waverly a _coat rack._ ”

And, indeed, he did.

Peril—in his unobtrusive (but readily apparent) smugness—leans nonchalantly against the burnished metal structure. “Is practical,” he explains. “Besides the obvious uses, it makes an excellent improvised weapon or barricade. Could even function as a body double in a pinch.”

He crosses his arms, tilts his head back. A victor’s pose. His voice is boastful, triumphant. “Best of all, it was free.”

Gaby shoots a quizzical look at Solo. He shrugs in response. “You’ll have to explain yourself, Peril.”

The Russian huffs, affronted. “There was no price listed on it, so I asked the clerk. She said it didn’t matter because it wasn’t part of the sale…”

He frowns, his sentence trailing off abruptly.

“Are you sure she didn’t mean it wasn’t _on_ sale?” Gaby asks, gentle. Solo is not nearly as conscientious. He grins at this glorious realization.

“My God, Peril, you _stole_ it.”

The Russian blanches, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Nobody stopped me,” he says, desperate.“They didn’t say anything. Just let me walk out with it.”

“You think _anyone_ would have tried to stop a 6’5 foreigner carrying—as you said—an _improvised weapon?”_

Peril begins to stammer incoherently. He watches miserably as the mechanic collapses on the sidewalk, almost crying with laughter. “You win, Illya,” she chokes out breathlessly. “Whatever prize you want is yours. It’s _yours._ ”

“We better get a move on,” Solo mutters, “seeing as you’re a fugitive now. So, where to?”

The Russian helps Gaby to her feet, tsks as he dusts her off. He smiles sheepishly at his partners, shrugs.

“How about Chinatown?”

Solo grins.  
He can’t _wait_ to surprise Waverly on Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1963, $3 would be the equivalent of about $20 in today's currency, while $20 would have equated to $158.84. Talk about inflation!
> 
> Thank you again for reading. :)


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